


The Boy Who Would Be King

by BannedBloodOranges, Rabenherz



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Character Study, Dress Up, Foreshadowing, Gen, Lounge Singing, Pre!Main Game, Precocious Baby Courier, Slice of Life, Theatre, reference to prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BannedBloodOranges/pseuds/BannedBloodOranges, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenherz/pseuds/Rabenherz
Summary: “What’s a savant?” He plays out the question, all sweet innocence, but he possibly knows, god knows how many books he’s always buried in, but he wants to hear her say it. She’s always brilliant at indulging men. Little would be men are no exception.“Child genius.”“That sounds like me!” He beams. “I'm good, aren't I?”In the back room of a sleazy theatre in New Reno, a lounge singer and a little boy have a talk.
Relationships: Male Courier & Original Character(s)
Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628497
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	The Boy Who Would Be King

**Author's Note:**

> Non-profit fun only.
> 
> Featuring a very young version of Rabenherz's courier, hence why they have been tagged as co-creator. Do yourself a favour and read their great fics, and meet him as a morally questionable adult!

Lady Luck is not rollin' the die on her tonight. Her little red number with the scooped neck has gotten tatty in the wardrobe. Some little tartlet didn't bother to hang it up, and it's snagged down the centre. As per typical, her wardrobe mistress is nowhere to be seen. Ol' Ghoulie Dorothy is a sweet ol' dear but as senile as a super mutant's sledgehammer.

Ani throws the dress over her arm, rummaging in her drawer for her sewing box. As luck would spit on her fair face, she has only two hands, and the slippery gilt of the fabric is a bitch to keep up by herself.

Lo and behold, Mama Weston's kid is doing his local haunt of the dressing room. The shirt he's crowded himself in is far too big, hanging loose over his hands and bagging to his knees. It's one of Petey's favourites, even if all the sequins are flaking off at the chest. Now, it's the kid's latest "costume" and only this particular kid could get away with it. The boy has got a face like freckly ham but goddamn it if he doesn't have charisma.

"Yes, Maam?" He trills. There's an accent there somewhere, but she doesn't have the patience to fork out what it could be. Could be just another trick typical of the weird little lad, another little vaudeville kick and trim. _Thank you, and goodnight!_

"Be a dear?" She hugs her bodice over her chest, trying to lodge her "gay deceivers" up high, so the cleavage looks at least a little convincing. Petey's a leg man, so she has no worries there, but god damn would she kill for some proper tits. Even Mama Weston has a bigger bra size.

Most boys would gag and sigh, but the kid hops off his stool, non-plussed, and dutifully holds the two clasps together as she stitches up the ailing satin. Pre-war costume, and it's done well so far. Here's hoping it'll last for the next thirty minutes.

"That'll do," She mumbles through the pins stuck out of her lips. She fights her frizzy hair into a topknot. She didn't have the time to iron the curl out, make it shimmer like a slick roll of oil down the curve of her shoulder. Frankly, a so-called sultry updo will have to suffice. The glass of the keg lights is so filthy as to give a misty glow to the stage. Petey likes it, says it gives the whole speakeasy character. As far as Ani is concerned, it helps cover a multitude of sins, noticeably unkempt hair.

She shimmers to the stage door. Munchin' Margo has finished her warm-up act. She always managed to get audience interest with her "near-feral but accessible" stand up.

"Ani!" Margo calls her in her irradiated growl. "You're up next, sweetheart."

"Here," She pushes a Dandy Disk truffle into the little boy's hands. "For your little deed, potato head."

The boy's teeth stretch from ear to ear.

* * *

"Stunning, my dear!" Peterson fixes his tie in her boudoir mirror, puffs up his golden curl. A ghoul with a full head of hair the colour of wheat, and his subsequent vanity. He pats the lockbox fat with caps (her tips, his so-called donation.) "You brought the house down, princess. My god, never have I heard such applause. With a voice like that, that can croon as good as the classics."

Ani sits, smoking steadily.

"Easy there, Petey," She clears her throat with a cough. A cigarette and a mint help keep the rot out post-performance. "That isn't what you usually say. You want a kiss tonight or what?"

Peterson blooms with the very notion, pulling her up with a growl. With a sigh, she turns her head and exhales at the mirror.

"Better then the classics," He greedily nuzzles at her neck. "Tell you what, my bonafide songbird, when I eventually go feral, you're the first I'm up and eatin'."

His skin is rough against hers. She's long since learned to tolerate it. Peterson isn't a bad sort, not really.

"Hey," Margo lounges in the doorway, draped in a loose chiffon dress. The seams are torn at the breast; from her latest client, no less. "There's somebody here who's requesting the company of one Ani Bow."

Ani smiles through her cigarette.

"Heh. They paying, Margo?"

"Of course, Ani. Top caps. Says he wants you to wear the red dress, the sparkly one. No underwear."

"Can do. Hope he doesn't mind a bit of sweat. Have had no time to shower." She shrugs off Peterson. "Let me get into the wardrobe."

Peterson holds her tight.

"She's busy," he growls.

"She's not busy," Ani flicks off his hand. "Get me the dress, will you Margo? Be a friend."

Margo disappears through the door. Ani picks out her curlers, shakes her hair free. In the mirror, she reapplies her lipstick. Peterson's frown is reflected over her shoulder.

"You don't have to do this anymore," he rumbles.

"You were all for it once upon a time," She purses her lips. She's plain without her makeup, but goddamn has she got one hell of a mouth. Cupid's bow, as Nana would say. She lines her lip with her pencil, keeping the shape beautifully even.

"That was before," He grumbles. He pulls at his suit, a nervous habit. "They don't deserve you, songbird."

"Before what, exactly? Before you brought my contract, or before you brought me?"

"It isn't like that, sweetheart!" He wraps his arms around her waist, buries his head in her shoulder. She sighs, squirts her chest with perfume. "You're an artist, sweetheart. You're not some cheap lay, for them to..."

"I'm certainly not cheap. Get off, I've gotta go."

He mutters in the dip of her throat, kissing her with his lipless mouth.

She hurries him off, slipping her sore feet into her heels. Peterson shrinks back, flicking his lighter to snatch the end of his cigar. As she closes the door, she sees the shake of his broad shoulders in the mirror. 

* * *

Her client was a nice looking smoothskin. She won't tell Peterson that. Not that it matters, not really, but Petey has been all sensitive of late. It was an adequate lay, and he hadn't been rough. He got what he paid for, and she got enough to hoard some more caps in the old stocking that served as her personal bank.

The other dancers have left. A large, empty whiskey bottle has been abandoned on her dressing room table. She massages her temples. Goddamn it, Petey. Way to send a guilty message.

A tiny cough catches her ear.

The kid swings his skinny legs from the stool. He’s abandoned Petey’s glitzy shirt for Margo’s chiffon nightgown. The tear on the breast has been neatly sewn up.

“I drank that,” he points to the bottle. “Tasted nice.”

“Honey,” Ani sighs. “If you’d drank that, you’d be under the table. Now off. Where’s your Mam?”

“Busy,” He jumps down, rattling. Ani raises an eyebrow. “I’m bored. Can I show you my new routine? It’s really good, I swear.”

“Uh-huh.” Such a little charmer. The older gals and even some of the guys coo and spoil him rotten. Poor little champ is gonna have the privilege of a nasty wake up call when his balls hit the floor. But for now, she leans back onto her dresser and lights a cigarette. “Go on, then.”

He sprouts a lopsided grin and flutters his eyes, brilliant green in the candlelight. He clicks on the dusty old jukebox crammed in the corner and she mentally prays it ain’t Bill Crosby. Petey gets all watery in his dull marble eyes but she is radium sick of his crooning.

The music starts. It’s a tempo she knows because it’s one of her favourites.

_Why don’t you do right…_

She burns down her cigarette as he performs. It takes her a minute to twig he’s impersonating her, and it’s a damn fine attempt at that. He flings the dressing gown over his hip, just as she does with her shawl, and peers flirtatiously over his shoulder with his chin high and one eyelash squeezed shut in a wink as is her signature entrance. He even takes his breath identical to when she hits a long note, dipping back with his lips pursed to ooze out the sweet sound. He lipsyncs to the song note by perfect note, sashaying back and forth as if tottering in her impossible heels.

The song shimmers out. He darts his head to the side, as she always does, to cue Peterson for the next act, and the way he twists his tiny face in the shadow of her frustration and affection cuts a chill on her neck.

He allows the appropriate silence to settle before he gives a sweeping bow.

She claps. It would be rude not to. Kid is a genius, and maybe a little bit spiteful.

“Bravo,” She blows her smoke in his face. Smoke gets in everyone’s eyes, except the tyke, who peers defiantly through it all. He sways the chiffon skirt side to side as if trying to be shy, but that’s one performance he’ll always fail at. “Gotta watch my back. Quite the little savant, huh?”

His brow wrinkles as he tastes out the word.

“What’s a savant?” He plays out the question, all sweet innocence, but he possibly knows, god knows how many books he’s always buried in, but he wants to hear her say it. She’s always brilliant at indulging men. Little would be men are no exception.

“Child genius.”

“That sounds like me!” He beams. “I'm good, aren't I?”

“Uh-huh.” She stubs out her cigarette. “Could have a new star, really. No wonder everyone is so cuckoo about you, kid.”

He’ll be no looker, but he has a certain savoir-faire. Give him a couple of years, and he might be pulling in the money in place of her. Might give Petey a talk about this kid.

Now, about that money.

“Well,” He yawns, as much as a pantomime as the rest of him. “I’m sleepy. Gotta rest, get my beauty sleep.”

“Uh-huh.” She nods. “But first of all, turn out your pockets.”

He freezes, then pouts as if butter wouldn't melt. He holds out the chiffon dress as a way of explanation.

“I’ve got nothing in my pockets!”

“Don’t bullshit me.” She grabs his arm and turns him back toward the mirror. “You have no pockets, but you were struggling to walk, weren’t you? I never struggle in my heels. Broke the illusion, my pet. Got heavy socks, huh?”

Other kids would cry, fight, point blank refuse. But he giggles and lifts up his dress. His high socks, concealed by the long nightgown, are stuffed with caps. She crosses her arms. She isn’t angry; doesn’t roll that way with young ones, but she’s bemused, and more then a touch pissed.

“It's payment for a great performance!”

“Nice attempt at diversion, kid.” She gets on her knees, dangling a fresh cigarette in her mouth. He cracks open her lighter, offering her the flame. She nods, lights her smoke, and is sure to confiscate the lighter into her bra for good measure. “You’ve got a nerve, appealing to my ego. Little do you know, caps appeal to me more. Don’t you think I haven’t got eyes on the back of my head?”

“You’re not cheap,” he pipes up, and as she rolls down the sock, she carefully collects each cap. Clever tyke had even turned the crimped edges away from the skin, as not to scratch himself. Most kids would stuff their pickets and cut their fingers raw on all the sharp edges. “It usually works.”

“Shouldn’t lie, honey.”

“You lie all the time.”

“Oh?” She stands with her hands on her wide hips. Petey’s lockbox is pushed back against the mirror. The lock has been obviously picked. “How so, kitten?”

“Well, you tell men you like them,” The boy admires himself in her mirror, turning this way and that. “When you don’t.”

“That’s not quite the same.” She takes a long drag. “Observant, huh? First rule of lying, pet. Context is key. I tell men I like them when they pay me. I like it when they pay me, so indirectly I like them, for a little while. Not a lie, not really.”

“So…” He hops up on her barstool, unwrapping a Dandy Apple Disc. “When is a lie not a lie, then? Or an almost lie?”

“My almost lies are exchanged for goods and services,” she taps his nose. “You lied because you wanted to distract me so you could steal my caps. What would I have got out of your lie, hmmm?”

He beams.

“My great performance!”

“Hardly. You offered it as a treat, not a transaction.”

“We-ell…” He shifts in the chair. “You’re still lying. They pay you caps to lie. So you’re stealing because you’re not really giving them what they want, cos’ you don’t really want to be there.”

She laughs, drily.

“And what makes baby here think that he knows everything, huh?” She grins lazily through her nicotine cloud. “You’re a bit young, sweetheart, to understand if I like or don’t like what I do. As it is, it does me perfectly fine. I even have fun, sometimes.”

“Hm.” The kid begins to fuss her perfume bottles, squeezing the squirt bulb. “I have fun when I lie.”

“Maybe. Be careful, kitten. Lying isn’t the same as performing.” She takes the bottle off him. He bares his neck; she squirts a single puff of perfume in his direction. “When you’re off the stage, or you don’t know your audience, lying for fun can backfire, can hurt you real bad. Take it from one who knows.”

“Do you lie to Peterson?” He wheedles, spinning on the stool. He moons up at her with those impossible eyes. She smirks, messing up his red hair.

“Yes.” She admits. “And no. When you’re older, honey.”

“I’m old enough. I could run this place!”

“I bet,” She says, wearily. “You better get off now, honey. I’m tired, and this turned out more philosophical then what I prepared myself for.”

“Okay,” He replies, sweet as sugar bombs, and he’s halfway to the door before she whistles between her teeth.

“What’s your name, kitten?”

“Meow,” He drawls back. “Arthur.”

“Hell of a name. You ever read the legends, sweetheart?”

“Cover to cover.” His smile curls up to his ears, like a Cheshire Cat. “I like the idea of a round table.”

“Oh?” She lies down on her couch, kicks off her shoes. She shimmers her caps in her hand. She left a few on the dressing table for Arthur. Without a word, he’d swiped them cleanly into his satin pockets. He’ll go far, that one. “So you can be fair, is that it? That’s nice.”

“Nah,” He pinches another Dandy Disk. “I like it so Arthur could look everyone in the eye, all the time. He knows what everyone is thinking.”

“Huh.” She dips her cigarette on the ashtray. “I see. But do they know what King Arthur is thinking, honey?”

“Oh,” he shrugs. “Yes and no, I guess.”

He bows to her, full of Kingly flourish, and in a rip of scarlet and red, he is gone through the door.

Ani stubs out her cigarette.


End file.
